Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 100853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
I wanted to know her story, though it hadn’t felt like the right time to ask. I hated the idea of her growing up the way I had, always trying and failing to feel a parent’s love. I wanted to know everything about her.
I just wanted her.
I’d drifted off in her bed, arm around her waist, her dark, shiny curls tucked under my chin. Hours later, I’d woken and forced myself to cross the cold hallway to my lonely room. I’d promised her we’d keep it a secret, and we would. I didn’t want my baggage tainting Paige. She was close to my family. She loved them. They loved her. If that changed because there was something going on between us—
I shook my head at the thought. I wouldn’t be the reason Paige had less. I should turn away. I should tell her… But I wasn’t going to. Despite all my efforts at reform, I was selfish enough to refuse to give her up completely.
She was a grown woman. She made her choice, fully informed.
But she doesn’t understand, I thought—
And then all my thoughts cut off at the crack of a bullet and the jerk of the wheel in my hands as the car started to veer out of control.
I gripped the wheel, hitting the brakes, trying to get the car to the shoulder of the narrow mountain road before I lost control and it went off the side. There wasn’t much room to pull over, but it was better than a nosedive over the edge.
There was another crack of sound and an explosion of glass followed by a thud. I ducked, the car jerking to a stop, half on, half off the road. Grimacing, I wedged myself as far out of sight as I could, broken safety glass grinding into my skin.
I couldn’t see where the shot had come from, or if they were close enough to run at me.
My heart thumping wildly, I fumbled my gun out of the glove box. The weight in my hand wasn’t as reassuring as I’d hoped. I could shoot in defense of my life—I wasn’t worried about that—but jammed down in the seat, hiding under the dashboard, I couldn’t even see who was approaching the car. West or Hawk were supposed to have me covered. I trusted them to do their jobs, but at that moment, the gun wavering in my hand, I realized how much I was trusting men who didn’t like me all that much. I forced myself to breathe. It was too late. All I could do now was stay down and try not to get killed.
I guessed that the first shot had taken out a tire, and the second had exploded the rear windshield. It seemed likely that if my head popped up, a third shot would bury itself in my skull. No thanks. I stayed down, my eyes flicking from window to window, blind in the darkness.
I caught the sound of footsteps on asphalt. Another shot, although I didn’t hear it hit the car, so it must have gone wild. I flinched. I couldn’t help it. I hated feeling like a sitting duck, but this was the plan. If he struck, I was supposed to get out of sight as fast as possible and let the professionals deal with him. My ego hated hiding while someone else risked themselves to save my life. I told my ego to shut it. I was qualified to do a lot of things. Taking down an assassin—even a bad one—wasn’t one of them.
Tires squealed outside—another vehicle—and shouts echoed. West, I thought.
A hard double knock sounded on the passenger door. Hawk. The door jerked open, and I stared up at him.
“You good?” Hawk scanned me and nodded to himself before I could answer.
I sat up, flicking the safety on the gun and setting it on the seat. “I’m fine. Did you get him?” I wondered how long it was going to be before my heart rate settled back to normal. I felt like I’d just finished running up a hill.
“We got him. West is slapping the cuffs on right now. You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Not sure about the car though.”
Hawk shrugged. I was driving an old beater Griffen had lent me—the car that got passed around whenever anyone needed a vehicle. I’d sold my sports car—rather, I’d had Haywood sell my sports car for me—while I was in prison, using the proceeds to pay a chunk of his fees. It made sense at the time. I’d been facing at least a decade behind bars; might as well have gotten the value out of the car. Maybe it was time to replace it.
“Will it start?” Hawk asked, bringing me back to the moment.
“I don’t know. Let’s see.” I turned the key and the car rumbled to life.